


Standstill

by shara



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shara/pseuds/shara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House doesn’t know how to fix this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standstill

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тупик](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11893947) by [syn_filifjonky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/syn_filifjonky/pseuds/syn_filifjonky)



> I couldn’t resist.

  
The first thing Wilson does is ask for some time off. He needs time to arrange Amber’s funeral. Her parents were finally able to fly in to Jersey, grieving and inconsolable, to bury their only daughter.  
  
(Cuddy tells him all this; he hasn’t spoken to Wilson since the night.)  
  
The viewing and funeral are private, open only to family and close friends. Her favorite flowers were sunflowers—Wilson has them ordered in by the dozens, places one between her folded hands.  
  
(Cuddy doesn’t know any of this, but House has his own methods of investigation.)  
  
House keeps his phone in his hand and flips to Wilson’s number every couple of hours. But he doesn’t dial.  
  
*  
  
When Wilson comes back, House watches him from angles, through windows and reflections, between clinic room blinds and out of the corner of his eye. Wilson doesn’t walk by House’s office or come in for coffee in the mornings. House doesn’t pace down hallways during differentials anymore, but instead walks wide circles around his office, feels his leg cramp as the day goes on, but the pain feels liberating, good.  
  
They pass each other in the hall once: House on his way home and Wilson to his late-night rounds.  
  
(House knows because he’s been checking Wilson’s schedule obsessively, knows that he’s been working himself to exhaustion, to forget.)  
  
House pauses but Wilson’s eyes flit past him and he keeps walking, shoulders tense.  
  
*  
  
Against his own better judgment, he ends up drunk again, stumbling out of a bar at 1 in the morning, heading for his motorcycle.  
  
(He has his keys his time, didn’t let the bartender keep them.)  
  
He can hardly see straight, though he didn’t drink much, not really, not as much as he could have. His thoughts feel fluid; they keep slipping away, like his hands on the bike’s handlebars. He tries very hard to aim for a crop of trees as he picks up speed, thinks he has no reason to be here, thinks that he might as well do this right. But he keeps seeing Amber smiling at him sideways in that knowing way, reminding him that it’s not about what he wants, and his hands hold firm.  
  
*  
  
He finds himself outside a half-familiar apartment building, walks unevenly into an elevator and down a hallway, confused by the numbers and colors blurring in front of him. He stops in front of a door that looks right, places his hand on it, and the wood feels warm, dark and heavy, throbbing with grief.  
  
(Or maybe that’s his head.

The bus driver sneers at him, _You have a headache_.

 _Shut up_ , he snarls back, and then he’s awake again.)  
  
_Wilson_ , he says to the door, but his mouth doesn’t move, nothing comes out.

 _I don’t know how to fix this_ , he says, but maybe he’s asleep again because the bus driver is grinning at him from across the hall.  
  
_Goddamnit_ , he says tiredly. _Go away_.  
  
He turns and sees Amber beside him, smiling sideways.  
  
_Stay with me_ , he says, but the garbage truck hits and they’re dead again.  
  
*  
  
He jolts awake when the floor gives out under him and opens his eyes to polished black French leather. He tilts his head up and sees Wilson staring down at him, holding the door open, a crease between his eyebrows.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asks, and House has no answer. He licks his lips and starts pushing himself up off the floor, gets an arm on the opposite wall for support. Wilson doesn’t help.  
  
(Where is his cane?)  
  
It’s the first time Wilson has met his eyes in weeks and he looks terrible, the skin under his eyes still dark, thinner, more drawn. But it’s Wilson, finally Wilson, and House drinks it all in, feels like he can finally take a breath, thinks, _I miss you. I l—_  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t know what to say.  
  
Wilson’s mouth twists bitterly as he turns away. He’s looking at the wall now, the doorjamb, the old wooden door (dark and heavy with grief, or maybe that’s his head, he remembers), the carpet House was sleeping on.  
  
_Stay with me_ , House thinks, and begins to panic. “I just wanted—" Stops because he sees Wilson swallow, eyes squeeze shut.  
  
“I don’t—I don’t want you coming here.” His voice is quiet, but firm.  
  
There is a pause and House’s chest feels tight again.  
  
“Okay,” he says, and turns to leave, limps down the corridor and hears the door shut behind him.  
  
(He’s been having some minor motor problems after the coma. That’s probably why his hands are shaking.)  
  
  


  



End file.
